At last I can return to the novel, I stopped to write a story that I had undertaken to do, damn it's time for the magazine of the RENFE, I felt compelled, after winning his award, and I hope that I have deleted the roads were open. I do not think, because I have very clear where to go. It is a story I had thought for some time, which is entitled "The Wolf" and speaks on the surface of the arrest in Madrid from Argentine Juan Carlos Fotea repressor, the murderer, among others, the writer Rodolfo Walsh and the founder Mothers of May, and at the bottom of the invisibility of evil, which is shown many times when neighbors or coworkers o los amigos de un criminal juran que nunca sospecharon nada, que no pueden creer lo que ahora cuentan los periódicos. En cuanto a nuestro poema, de momento lo dejo aquí, en su forma definitiva... de momento, a la espera de lo que pase con la encuesta que tiene abierta Meadow en suminuestro blog. Por cierto que el libro en el que irá "El viajero" ya tiene título: Agua pasada.
EL VIAJERO
Se viaja siempre contra tu país,
de ti mismo a un lugar donde ser otro
que ya no te recuerde,
ni quiera regresar.
Pero dónde hay un mundo más allá del pasado,
para escapar de ti.
El que se marcha aprende a olvidar los caminos. Loyal
Give up the adventure of going
and the dream of return.
But what good is the distance
the man who does not forget,
which is doomed to
his face can be reflected at once in two rivers.
With the sadness of
stops to let their wishes long;
hopes of remaining intact
not know where to go or whom to expect,
my leave of you,
went down to the street
set foot in a land that did not exist,
where my shadow was not the axis of the dark,
where your eyes were not the masters of light.
I've never been more far as to let you go.
